


down to breathing

by EmmaArthur (EchoBleu)



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: 4+1, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Family, Gen, Homophobia, Jesse Manes is His Own Warning, Manes Brothers - Freeform, Suicide Attempt, War, injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24866971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoBleu/pseuds/EmmaArthur
Summary: Four times their father's shadow was too large for them, and one time it isn't. Alex, Greg and Flint over the years.
Relationships: Alex Manes & Gregory Manes, Alex Manes & Gregory Manes & Flint Manes
Comments: 20
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been obsessed with Gregory Manes and the Manes brothers dynamics since the finale. This is my entry for day 1 of Alex Appreciation Week, and I will post the other four parts during the week (as well as a couple of other things). Each part is very short, it's all really one fic but the themes happened to fit perfectly with Alex week.
> 
> The title comes from this [post/poem](https://juststimming.wordpress.com/2012/03/04/your-dreams-will-be-reduced-down-to-breathing-and-you-will-be-grateful/) by Julia Bascom. The full line is this: _Your dreams will be reduced down to breathing. And you will be grateful._
> 
> Heed the warnings because most of it is quite dark. This draws on headcanons that I developed for [setting fire to our insides](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23040094) (with a few changes) for Alex's childhood, and brand new headcanons inspired by my immediate love for Greg!
> 
> [for this part: discussion of a suicide attempt, child abuse, physical abuse, mentions of guns]

**1.**

Greg looks up with a measure of panic when the door to their bedroom opens, but it's not his father's heavy steps. Instead, Flint's mop of dark hair peeks in. He takes in the scene, both of them on Alex's bed, Alex's head resting on Greg's lap, his eyes closed, and he quietly comes in and closes the door again behind him.

Without a word, he moves the math notebook off Greg's bed and sits down, staring at Alex the whole time.

G reg catches his eyes, briefly. It's enough to see more emotions in his brother's gaze than he's seen in years. Since Mom left, probably. Flint took it the hardest, out of all of them, and he shut down on himself.  The way he's looking at them now, at Alex…

“I'm sorry,” Alex murmurs, his voice hoarse.

Greg looks down at his pale face, the strands of hair sticking on his brow with sweat, the slight tremble of his whole body.

Flint is the one who found him, just under forty-eight hours ago, passed out on this same bed in a pool of vomit, clutching at a bottle of their Mom's pills. Greg doesn't even know where Alex found them, where he kept them, when their father inspects their room once a week. Alex was just six when Mom left. He can't have been planning this the whole time.

“Alex−”

“I didn't want you to find me,” Alex says, coughing. 

F lint closes his eyes sadly.

“Did you do it because of Dad?” he asks.

Alex shrugs. “Not just him,” he mutters.

Greg frowns. He hasn't been paying a lot of attention to what his little brother gets up to, recently. School has been picking up, and he's been scrambling to bring back better grades after his one C at the beginning of the year sent Dad into a rage. But it's been a while since he's seen Kyle around, and Alex has been spending most of his free time at home, despite Dad growing more and more violent toward him. “Is it Kyle?” he asks. “Did he do something? Or...is it us?” The thought knots him up inside.

“Not you,” Alex shakes his head immediately. “Kyle's been…” He shrugs again, trailing off. “He doesn't want to hang out with a sissy like me.”

“You're not a sissy.”

“Aren't I? Dad says I am. I just proved them right, didn't I?”

Greg sighs.

“No,” Flint says firmly. “Dad's wrong about you.”

Alex lets out a tiny whimper and curls up tighter, half-burying his face into  Greg's tee-shirt,  his back to Flint .

“What did he say?” Flint asks.

Alex doesn't answer at first, so Greg gently reaches for the edge of his tee-shirt and pulls it up enough to expose the angry red lashes.

“I have to run the obstacle course three times every night,” Alex recites, tonelessly. “I'll get more of the belt once Clay comes back. And he'll take me to the shooting range this weekend.”

“The shooting range?” Flint frowns.

Alex turns enough to look at him. “Said if I want to do it again, I should at least do it like a man.”

“Fuck,” Flint murmurs, standing up brutally. He starts pacing the length of the small room, between the two beds. Greg tries to swallow around the knot in his throat. 

“Do you want to?” he asks softly. “Do it again?”

Alex shrugs. He closes his eyes again, avoiding their stares. Greg looks up at Flint.

“What do we do?” he asks. 

Flint swallows and  stops moving . “Nothing,” he says. “There's nothing we can do.”

“But−”

“He's right,” Alex whispers. “You can't do anything. Don't make him have to punish you too.”

Greg wants to correct him, to tell him that having to watch Alex get beaten and humiliated and hurt is punishment on its own, but he doesn't. Alex doesn't need that weight on his shoulders.

He wishes he could take it all, relieve Alex of whatever it is that makes their father single him out, but he can't. So he just holds him close instead, and lets him cry in his tee-shirt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [mentions of abuse and death, injuries]

Greg watches Alex take his arm out of its sling and carefully roll his shoulder, wincing the whole time. “Will you at least tell me what happened?”

“He's been mum for days,” Flint says from the other side of the room.

“Yeah, well, maybe he'll talk to _me,_ ” Greg retorts. He's only been home for a few hours, on leave before he's shipped out for his first deployment in a couple of weeks. Hopping off the bus to find Alex, who he's barely seen in the last year, in this state was something of a shock. He'd thought things were getting better. That's what Alex said in his emails.

“Can you stop talking like I'm not in the room?” Alex rasps out. His throat is all in shades of blues and greens, bruises of various depth circling his neck. Greg is certain he can see the shape of hands.

“We would, if you actually spoke with us,” he says.

Alex sighs, massaging his shoulder carefully. “Why does it matter what happened?” he asks. “Dad hardly needs a reason to get angry.”

“He's never gone that far before,” Flint says darkly. He was the one who took Alex to the hospital to make sure he didn't have any lasting injuries, apparently, after finding him huddled in his room in pain, days after the fact. Alex didn't even tell anyone, just endured it on his own as usual, and it turned out that his larynx was injured−nearly enough to need surgery−and his collar bone is cracked.

“What do _you_ know about that,” Alex spits out.

“Has he?”

“No,” Alex admits reluctantly.

“So what happened?” Greg asks again, sitting down beside him on the couch. Their father is at work, and should be there for another few hours, so they have enough time to talk.

“Nothing,” Alex sighs.

“'Nothing' made Dad beat you up badly enough to _crack bones_ and made you suddenly decide to enlist after you swore you wouldn't for years?”

Alex shrugs with his good shoulder, not looking at either of them. “I just said that, it was just a dream, okay? I knew he'd make me enlist eventually.”

Flint nods at that. Greg sighs. They all knew that, to some extent. To their father, a Manes man must be have a military career. But then, a Manes man must also be straight, so Greg had some hope that Dad would just give up on Alex and let him do whatever he wants.

“You don't have to, Alex,” he says. “You'll be eighteen in a few days. You can make your own choices.”

Alex averts his eyes. “Yeah, I do. I want to.”

It's such an obvious lie that even Flint clocks it. “What happened, Alex? Seriously.”

Alex runs a hand down his face, and when he looks back up, he looks exhausted. He's wearing a plain black hoodie and no make-up, his nose ring the only reminder of his rebel emo style. “Dad caught me with a guy,” he murmurs. “And then my friend died.”

“Fuck,” Greg murmurs, things finally shifting in place in his head.

Flint sits down heavily across from them. “Which friend?” he asks.

Alex swallows. “Rosa Ortecho.” Tears rise up in his eyes at the mention of her, so Greg pats his good arm awkwardly. He wants to offer a hug, but Manes men don't get emotional. He hates this bullshit, sometimes.

“She was in my year,” Flint murmurs, uncharacteristically sad. 

“I know,” Alex says.

“What happened?” Greg asks.

“I don't know. Some car accident. She...she had drug issues, but Liz says she wasn't using anymore.”

“Shit, Alex. I'm sorry.”

Alex looks down at his knees. “I want to put this behind me,” he says. “Get away from here. From him.”

Greg nods. “I get that. But is it really the right way? Giving up on your dreams?”

“Was it the right was for you?” Alex asks quietly. “You wanted to be a teacher. Flint had football, could have gotten a scholarship. Why did you both enlist?”

Flint just shrugs and shakes his head.

“I still want to teach, someday,” Greg says. “I just figured Dad would leave me in peace if I did my four years first. Easier than fighting him over it.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I'll do that too,” Alex sighs. “It's not like music's a real job anyway.”

Greg bites his lip and meets Flint's eyes. He knows they're thinking about the same thing, about DADT and the near daily slurs they both hear. Basic would be rough for Alex, free-spirited and sensitive, even if he was straight.

“I wish we could−” he starts.

“Don't,” Alex stops him. “Please. I'll be fine.”

Shaking his hand goodbye two weeks later at the airport, knowing that this is the last time he'll see Alex with his nose ring and his eyeliner, Greg really hopes he's right.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to update this a lot sooner, but I took a much needed break from writing and fandom. Here's part 3.
> 
> [edited to add CWs because I was somehow too tired to remember, sorry: mentions of abuse, Jesse Manes being a shit father, post-injury including loss of limb, mentions of ableism and homophobia, mentions of hospitals]

**3.**

Greg crosses the physical therapy gym in search of Alex and finds him by the changing rooms, being helped into his jacket by an attendant.

“Everything okay today?” he asks his brother.

Alex doesn't meet his eyes. “Can we just go home?” he asks, struggling to move his wheelchair with his one good arm.

Greg nods at the attendant, who is still hovering, and steps behind Alex to take the handles of the chair. “ Sure,” he says. He's starting to recognize Alex's moods, and  to  get better at letting him handle them on his own. This is his tired, defeated 'rough day' stance, not his 'bad news' attitude. There's nothing for Greg to do but watch out for him.

He's showered and wearing fresh sweats, at least, so they won't have to endure that process at home. The loss of independence is the hardest thing for Alex to accept, and he sees having his brother help him bathe as humiliating. Greg has tried to make it as painless as possible, but it's never easy.

He lets  Alex sulk until they're both in his car. “How's the pain?” he asks casually.

“Same,” Alex mutters. “Doesn't let up.”

Greg reaches out to squeeze his thigh, avoiding his injured shoulder. If nothing else, they've grown more tactile in the last few weeks than they've been since they were kids. “It will,” he says.

“It might not. I looked it up, for some people phantom pain never goes away.”

“And for the large majority of people, it goes away or reduces significantly over the first couple of months,” Greg says. “I tried to read about it too. The odds are good.”

Alex sighs. “ I'm just tired. Nothing helps.”

“I know.” Alex has been out of the hospital for three weeks, and while the heavy-duty painkillers he's on help with his broken neck and his torn shoulder, nothing even makes a dent in the nerve pain coming from his amputated foot. It's been truly rough, and Greg keeps wondering if he's really equipped to give Alex the help he needs. He didn't hesitate to offer his place and his time to his brother−deep inside, it's an opportunity to atone in a small way for letting their father abuse Alex so badly−but he feels so helpless to alleviate Alex's pain and grief.

G reg parks into the one handicapped spot in his street, which is unfortunately half a block away from his entrance. He helps Alex back into his wheelchair and starts them on their way, but he freezes when he looks up.

“What is he doing here?” he mutters under his breath.

“Flint?” Alex frowns.

Their brother is standing awkwardly on the steps in front of Greg's building, wearing fatigues, a backpack slung over his shoulders. He startles when he spots them and scrambles down the steps.

Greg can see the way his face falls when he takes in Alex's wheelchair, the sling and the brace around his neck, and finally the empty, rolled up pant leg. He closes his eyes briefly and takes a shaky breath before attempting a smile. “Greg,” he says, nodding. “Alex.”

“What are you doing here?” Greg asks, sensing Alex's discomfort mounting quickly.

“I finally got leave, and I−I wanted to see Alex,” Flint hesitates. 

“About time,” Greg spits out. They all know Flint could have asked for a few days to come see Alex in the hospital, but he didn't try. “Even Clay came before you.”

Flint glares at him. He opens his mouth, but before he can come up with an answer, Alex shifts in his wheelchair. “Can we not do this in the middle of the street, please?” he asks, his voice low and pained.

“Of course,” Greg murmurs, for his benefit only. “Move over,” he adds coldly for Flint.

Flint frowns until he realizes that he's standing between them and the ramp, and steps aside. Greg pushes Alex up to the door and punches in his code, purposefully using his body to hide it from Flint. None of them say a word as they cross the small lobby and ride up the elevator to the third floor.

Greg's apartment is badly lit and still full of boxes−he found it in a hurry and moved here while Alex was in the hospital, to be able to welcome him in an accessible place. He set up all the essentials−living room furniture, kitchen, and Alex's room−but he still sleeps on a mattress, since he only owned one bed in his old place.  Flint raises an eyebrow at the lack of decorations and the boxes in the corner, and Greg dares him to comment with  a glare.

He brings Alex up to the couch and lets him transfer on his own, then work on removing his coat and his shoe. Alex needs every bit of independence he can manage, right now. Greg takes the coat from him. “Need anything?”

“Water and meds,” Alex mutters. “Please.”

Greg ignores Flint, who is hovering by the door, in favor of grabbing a glass and Alex's pill bottles from the kitchen. “There you go,” he sets them down on the coffee table.

“Come sit down,” Alex ushers Flint closer. His tone is kinder than Flint deserves, in Greg's opinion.

Flint shrugs off his backpack and obeys hesitantly. “How are you doing?” he asks, his face growing softer as he really takes in Alex's state.

Alex shrugs with his good shoulder. “I've been better.”  He offers a small smile, before bending with a wince to grab the glass of water.

Greg considers leaving them alone, but he decides he's not done giving Flint a hard time. Besides, Alex might still need him as a buffer, especially if the subject of Dad comes up. He plops down beside Alex on the couch, careful not to jostle him. Alex flashes him a quick smile.

Flint is staring. Alex meets his gaze steadily, with a courage that Greg can only admire. “Everything will heal, except for the...leg,” he says. “That's gonna take a little adjusting. But I'll be okay.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Flint breathes, stilted and awkward but with real concern in his eyes. “I'm sorry I didn't come sooner,” he adds, glancing at Greg briefly.

“I understand why you didn't,” Alex says softly. Greg almost intervenes, because Flint really doesn't deserve this forgiveness, but Alex goes on. “To be honest, I'm not a fan of hospital visits. I was pretty out of it anyway.”

“Dad was there several times,” Greg explains. “Clay, too. Well, once.”

Flint hears the “you should have been there” loud and clear in his tone, and he glares. “I couldn't, okay? I was on a assignment.”

“Bullshit. You just didn't want to see Alex like that.”

Flint has the good grace to look ashamed. “I would have come if I could,” he still insists.

“Dad started blaming Alex for getting injured,” Greg spits out. “I could have used some back up to make him stop.”

“He wouldn't have helped,” Alex whispers. Greg turns his head to look at him, and immediately feels guilty at the sadness on his face.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, don't you know? Dad and Flint are good friends now.”

“Alex−” Flint starts to protest.

“Tell me it's not true,” Alex stares him down. It's impressive in itself that he can do that even in his current state.

Flint looks away.

“What happened?” Greg asks.

“I don't know, they were all buddy-buddy at my last promotion,” Alex rolls his eyes.

“I'm not his buddy,” Flint says through gritted teeth. “We just worked on something together.”

“You watched him go at me in the fucking bathroom for bringing a date and you just _smirked_.”

“You did _what_?” Greg stammers in shock. “ _He_ did what?”

There is little more important to Dad than decorum, and his sons certainly aren't. For him to go at Alex in public, he must have been truly enraged.

“I didn't let him come close,” Alex shrugs his good shoulder. “Found out just how satisfying it is to outrank him.”

“Good for you,” Greg smirks. He rounds in on Flint again. “What the fuck?”

“Alex had it handled,” Flint shrugs, but he's still averting his eyes.

“Fuck you,” Greg mutters.

“It doesn't matter,” Alex says. “I don't need either of you to protect me.”

Greg forbids himself from looking at him doubtfully. Alex is right, objectively. He's the best ranked of them all, in their three different military branches. He made something of himself, despite their father, despite everything he's endured. Even now, weeks away from a major injury and facing a life change Greg can't even imagine for himself, he's more emotionally rational than either of them. And that's three days after being officially diagnosed with PTSD.

“Do you know what you're going to do now?” Flint asks Alex quietly. “You're gonna take the discharge?”

“I don't know yet if they'll give me a choice,” Alex says. He looks at the same time younger and much older than he really is, the vulnerability striking on his face. His eyes are full of shadows, now, full of grief. Greg took him to the Purple Heart ceremony last week, where Alex received his own, but also had to hand two medals out to the families of his fallen comrades, Dawson and Karl. His best friend, and his lover, Greg knows.

How are they still here, a decade later? Greg thought he'd be out of the Navy as soon as his enlistment was up, and yet he signed up twice more. Alex was never supposed to enlist at all. Clay is the only one of them who had any wish to follow in their father's footsteps, but somehow Alex is the one who's paid the high price for it.

“Will you stay, if they allow it?” Flint asks.

“Maybe,” Alex admits. “I only have nine more months, they can probably let me ride a desk.”

Greg nods. It would be easier than him having to find another job right away, if nothing else. Alex has the kind of skills the Air Force won't throw away just because he was injured.

“You'll, um, you'll get a prosthetic or something, right?” Flint asks uncomfortably, looking at anything but Alex's leg.

Alex stares back at him, with a sort of defiance in his eyes. He looks more lively than he has in weeks, in some ways. “Yeah, we'll start the fittings in a month or so. Don't worry, in a year or so I won't even  _look_ disabled.”

Greg shudders at the echo of their father's words, the constant admonition to never appear weak.  _What's important is that it won't be visible_ , he said in the hospital, when Alex could barely look at his stump without throwing up.

Flint closes his eyes. “That's not what I meant,” he murmurs.

“Isn't it?” Alex challenges. Flint just shakes his head mutely, looking honestly apologetic, and he deflates. “Sorry.”

“I'm not Dad,” Flint says.

“No, you're not,” Alex admits. Greg nods along, because it's a fact. Even Clay has yet to reach Dad's levels of cruelty. He wonders where the line is. Which one of them will take a wrong turn, in these murky waters, and lose himself. They all know that their grandfather was probably even worse than Dad, and his father before him. It's the Manes way.

T hey'll never be free of that.

They'll never be the kind of brothers who hug and chill together, so they sit rigidly and a frozen pizza, their backs straight, never touching and never relaxing, until Alex's painkillers start to make him woozy. Greg helps him through his evening routine while Flint lays a comforter and a pillow on the bumpy couch for himself.

“Is he really gonna be okay?” Flint asks very quietly when Greg comes back out of Alex's bedroom.

Greg sighs. “I don't know. But he'd tough. Tougher than any of us.”

Flint nods. “I really am sorry,” he whispers. “Dad got in my head again.”

So that's the real reason for his absence. 

“He does that,” Greg murmurs, like forgiveness.


End file.
